Written by
Andrew Marvell |
Heark how the Mower Damon Sung,
With love of Juliana stung!
While ev'ry thing did seem to paint
The Scene more fit for his complaint.
Like her fair Eyes the day was fair;
But scorching like his am'rous Care.
Sharp like his Sythe his Sorrow was,
And wither'd like his Hopes the Grass.
Oh what unusual Heats are here,
Which thus our Sun-burn'd Meadows sear!
The Grass-hopper its pipe gives ore;
And hamstring'd Frogs can dance no more.
But in the brook the green Frog wades;
And Grass-hoppers seek out the shades.
Only the Snake, that kept within,
Now glitters in its second skin.
This heat the Sun could never raise,
Nor Dog-star so inflame's the dayes.
It from an higher Beauty grow'th,
Which burns the Fields and Mower both:
Which made the Dog, and makes the Sun
Hotter then his own Phaeton.
Not July causeth these Extremes,
But Juliana's scorching beams.
Tell me where I may pass the Fires
Of the hot day, or hot desires.
To what cool Cave shall I descend,
Or to what gelid Fountain bend?
Alas! I look for Ease in vain,
When Remedies themselves complain.
No moisture but my Tears do rest,
Nor Cold but in her Icy Breast.
How long wilt Thou, fair Shepheardess,
Esteem me, and my Presents less?
To Thee the harmless Snake I bring,
Disarmed of its teeth and sting.
To Thee Chameleons changing-hue,
And Oak leaves tipt with hony due.
Yet Thou ungrateful hast not sought
Nor what they are, nor who them brought.
I am the Mower Damon, known
Through all the Meadows I have mown.
On me the Morn her dew distills
Before her darling Daffadils.
And, if at Noon my toil me heat,
The Sun himself licks off my Sweat.
While, going home, the Ev'ning sweet
In cowslip-water bathes my feet.
What, though the piping Shepherd stock
The plains with an unnum'red Flock,
This Sithe of mine discovers wide
More ground then all his Sheep do hide.
With this the golden fleece I shear
Of all these Closes ev'ry Year.
And though in Wooll more poor then they,
Yet am I richer far in Hay.
Nor am I so deform'd to sight,
If in my Sithe I looked right;
In which I see my Picture done,
As in a crescent Moon the Sun.
The deathless Fairyes take me oft
To lead them in their Danses soft:
And, when I tune my self to sing,
About me they contract their Ring.
How happy might I still have mow'd,
Had not Love here his Thistles sow'd!
But now I all the day complain,
Joyning my Labour to my Pain;
And with my Sythe cut down the Grass,
Yet still my Grief is where it was:
But, when the Iron blunter grows,
Sighing I whet my Sythe and Woes.
While thus he threw his Elbow round,
Depopulating all the Ground,
And, with his whistling Sythe, does cut
Each stroke between the Earth and Root,
The edged Stele by careless chance
Did into his own Ankle glance;
And there among the Grass fell down,
By his own Sythe, the Mower mown.
Alas! said He, these hurts are slight
To those that dye by Loves despight.
With Shepherds-purse, and Clowns-all-heal,
The Blood I stanch, and Wound I seal.
Only for him no Cure is found,
Whom Julianas Eyes do wound.
'Tis death alone that this must do:
For Death thou art a Mower too.
|
Written by
Amy Lowell |
I
The inkstand is full of ink, and the paper lies
white and unspotted,
in the round of light thrown by a candle. Puffs of darkness
sweep into
the corners, and keep rolling through the room behind his chair. The
air
is silver and pearl, for the night is liquid with moonlight.
See how the roof glitters, like ice!
Over there, a slice of yellow cuts into the silver-blue,
and beside it stand
two geraniums, purple because the light is silver-blue, to-night.
See! She is coming, the young woman with the bright hair.
She swings a basket as she walks, which she places on the sill,
between the geranium stalks. He laughs, and crumples
his paper
as he leans forward to look. "The Basket Filled with
Moonlight",
what a title for a book!
The bellying clouds swing over the housetops.
He has forgotten the woman in the room with the geraniums. He
is beating
his brain, and in his eardrums hammers his heavy pulse. She
sits
on the window-sill, with the basket in her lap. And tap! She
cracks a nut.
And tap! Another. Tap! Tap! Tap! The
shells ricochet upon the roof,
and get into the gutters, and bounce over the edge and disappear.
"It is very *****," thinks Peter, "the basket was
empty, I'm sure.
How could nuts appear from the atmosphere?"
The silver-blue moonlight makes the geraniums purple,
and the roof glitters
like ice.
II
Five o'clock. The geraniums are very
gay in their crimson array.
The bellying clouds swing over the housetops, and over the roofs
goes Peter
to pay his morning's work with a holiday.
"Annette, it is I. Have you finished? Can
I come?"
Peter jumps through the window.
"Dear, are you alone?"
"Look, Peter, the dome of the tabernacle is done. This
gold thread
is so very high, I am glad it is morning, a starry sky would have
seen me bankrupt. Sit down, now tell me, is your story
going well?"
The golden dome glittered in the orange of the
setting sun. On the walls,
at intervals, hung altar-cloths and chasubles, and copes, and stoles,
and coffin palls. All stiff with rich embroidery, and
stitched with
so much artistry, they seemed like spun and woven gems, or flower-buds
new-opened on their stems.
Annette looked at the geraniums, very red against the blue sky.
"No matter how I try, I cannot find any thread
of such a red.
My bleeding hearts drip stuff muddy in comparison. Heigh-ho! See
my little
pecking dove? I'm in love with my own temple. Only
that halo's wrong.
The colour's too strong, or not strong enough. I don't
know. My eyes
are tired. Oh, Peter, don't be so rough; it is valuable. I
won't do
any more. I promise. You tyrannise, Dear,
that's enough. Now sit down
and amuse me while I rest."
The shadows of the geraniums creep over the floor,
and begin to climb
the opposite wall.
Peter watches her, fluid with fatigue, floating, and drifting,
and undulant in the orange glow. His senses flow towards
her,
where she lies supine and dreaming. Seeming drowned in
a golden halo.
The pungent smell of the geraniums is hard to bear.
He pushes against her knees, and brushes his lips across her languid
hands.
His lips are hot and speechless. He woos her, quivering,
and the room
is filled with shadows, for the sun has set. But she
only understands
the ways of a needle through delicate stuffs, and the shock of one
colour
on another. She does not see that this is the same, and
querulously murmurs
his name.
"Peter, I don't want it. I am tired."
And he, the undesired, burns and is consumed.
There is a crescent moon on the rim of the sky.
III
"Go home, now, Peter. To-night is full
moon. I must be alone."
"How soon the moon is full again! Annette,
let me stay. Indeed, Dear Love,
I shall not go away. My God, but you keep me starved! You
write
`No Entrance Here', over all the doors. Is it not strange,
my Dear,
that loving, yet you deny me entrance everywhere. Would
marriage
strike you blind, or, hating bonds as you do, why should I be denied
the rights of loving if I leave you free? You want the
whole of me,
you pick my brains to rest you, but you give me not one heart-beat.
Oh, forgive me, Sweet! I suffer in my loving, and you
know it. I cannot
feed my life on being a poet. Let me stay."
"As you please, poor Peter, but it will hurt me
if you do. It will
crush your heart and squeeze the love out."
He answered gruffly, "I know what I'm about."
"Only remember one thing from to-night. My
work is taxing and I must
have sight! I MUST!"
The clear moon looks in between the geraniums. On
the wall,
the shadow of the man is divided from the shadow of the woman
by a silver thread.
They are eyes, hundreds of eyes, round like marbles! Unwinking,
for there
are no lids. Blue, black, gray, and hazel, and the irises
are cased
in the whites, and they glitter and spark under the moon. The
basket
is heaped with human eyes. She cracks off the whites
and throws them away.
They ricochet upon the roof, and get into the gutters, and bounce
over the edge and disappear. But she is here, quietly
sitting
on the window-sill, eating human eyes.
The silver-blue moonlight makes the geraniums purple,
and the roof shines
like ice.
IV
How hot the sheets are! His skin is
tormented with pricks,
and over him sticks, and never moves, an eye. It lights
the sky with blood,
and drips blood. And the drops sizzle on his bare skin,
and he smells them
burning in, and branding his body with the name "Annette".
The blood-red sky is outside his window now. Is
it blood or fire?
Merciful God! Fire! And his heart wrenches
and pounds "Annette!"
The lead of the roof is scorching, he ricochets,
gets to the edge,
bounces over and disappears.
The bellying clouds are red as they swing over
the housetops.
V
The air is of silver and pearl, for the night is
liquid with moonlight.
How the ruin glistens, like a palace of ice! Only two
black holes swallow
the brilliance of the moon. Deflowered windows, sockets
without sight.
A man stands before the house. He sees
the silver-blue moonlight,
and set in it, over his head, staring and flickering, eyes of geranium
red.
Annette!
|